Hugh Godfrey flinched at the insult before he schooled his features once more. “How would you like to proceed, Your Grace?”
“There are ways to hasten this man’s confession, should he need to make one.” The king stepped forward. His eyes locked upon Lachlan. “Do you tell us what we wish to know willingly, or shall we allow more forceful tests to loosen your tongue? I personally have no stomach for the devices, but they are very effective at bringing on a confession.”
He spoke of torture. A shudder passed through Lachlan, but he kept his face impassive.
“There is another way,” the Lord Advocate said as he took the Bible from Lachlan’s hands and set it on the table behind him. “Since it is our quest to determine if this man should stand trial as a witch, if we had irrefutable proof, then a trial would be all but certain.”
“What are you suggesting?” the king asked with a frown.
Hugh Godfrey’s eyes glinted with excitement. “It is well known that to seal a pact with the Devil, the dark one will suck upon the flesh, leaving a mark, a spot, or a teat in some hidden place. When pricked with a needle, if the mark neither bleeds nor causes pain, then it is a true Devil’s Mark. Such a mark can be easily mistaken for one that is naturally occurring upon the flesh, so only an expert in these matters might be trusted to find such a devious contract between a human and the dark one. John Swinton is here in Berwick. He is renowned for his skills as a pricker and has sent many witches to the flames. Shall I send for him?”
Lachlan tensed as he imagined the long, sharp needle they would thrust into his flesh and quite possibly over every inch of his body. Swinton might be highly regarded for his skill as a pricker, but he was also Mariam Swinton’s—one of his accusers—father. Would the man be more thorough in his task in an effort to prove his own daughter right in her suspicions?
“Aye, send for the pricker,” the king said after a long pause. “But delay until tomorrow. I want the prisoner denied food and sleep so he might be easier to contend with when the pricker begins his work. Escort the sorcerer back to his cell.”
“Will no one hear me when I tell you I am innocent?” Lachlan’s gaze traveled over the king, the Lord Advocate, Hugh Godfrey, the elders, and the crowd. “I am an innocent man.”
The king averted his gaze. “Take him away before he casts a spell on us,” he said above the growing cacophony of sound.
Lachlan struggled against the grip of the guards who came to seize him. The king would betray him in spite of their unique bond, regardless of how many enemies he had killed all in the king’s name. He would toss Lachlan into the fires of hell simply to prove he alone could root out evil among his people.
The guards forced Lachlan forward. It took everything inside him to keep on walking despite the betrayal that racked his soul and knotted every muscle. The king had broken the sacred oath he and his brothers had taken when they’d become the king’s Magnificent Seven.
Lachlan had been abandoned and left to the devices of others who would see that he was not only accused of witchcraft, but that he would suffer for that supposed crime as well. He was undone.
And yet, he had learned time and again in the heart of battle, that just when he thought all was lost, something would come along and remake him. Help him turn the tide. Help him win the day.
’Twas what he needed now. Someone or something to intervene—to cast a glimmer of light into the darkness. As though compelled by a force outside himself, he looked back over his shoulder and into Elizabeth’s face.
Have faith, she mouthed the words to him. I am with you.
He continued to look at her until they dragged him through the doorway, cutting off his view. Even so, hope sprang to life within him. A bright burning flame that caught, flared, and grew. If Elizabeth stood by him in his most urgent hour of need, then there was hope he could yet survive whatever ordeal came at the end of John Swinton’s needle.
Chapter Twelve
The guards took turns walking Lachlan back and forth across his small cell all through the night. The church had decreed that suspected witches and warlocks must be kept awake because during the hours of sleep, the Devil may easily enter their bodies and exert his power. The goal was to make the accused disoriented and confused so they might confess to their crimes more easily.
What the king or the church failed to consider was that as a warrior, Lachlan was used to long hours of wakefulness. One did not sleep when the enemy might attack. So, he plodded back and forth across the decaying, straw-strewn floor, enduring it all, for he knew this was not the worst of the challenges ahead of him.
When the tolbooth clock chimed eight times, the guards finally left him alone. Weary, but not beaten, he settled upon the cold stone floor, waiting. Lachlan did not have to wait long until footsteps sounded in the hallway. He heard the door of his cell creak open. The aureole of light cast by a torch illuminated the eager face of John Swinton. The similarity of his features to those of his daughter left no doubt about who he might be. He was dressed in a mud-colored monk’s robe, complete with a rope belt tied about his ample belly. He shuffled into the chamber, giving Lachlan a better view of his soon-to-be torturer. His face was full, his lips hard, and his eyes studied Lachlan with cool objectivity. “Greetings of the day, m’laird. I am told you have been wicked among men and that it is up to me to uncover your sins.”
“I have not said I am without sin,” Lachlan clarified. “But what I am is no sorcerer. Your time with me shall be wasted, I fear.”
“I very much doubt that. For I have yet to let a witch slip through my grasp.” With a nod of his head, he instructed two guards to step forth and seize Lachlan. They escorted him out of the cell and down the long hallway until they came to a short staircase. The guards forced him down the stairs and into a stone chamber illuminated by a torch set into a sconce near the doorway. The only other light in the room came from a fire in the brazier at the far end of the chamber.
Eerie shadows crept over the contents of the room. But even in the low light, Lachlan could clearly make out a torture rack in the middle of the chamber.
“Help me.” The weak and pitiful sound of a woman’s voice jerked his attention to the left.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Lachlan saw that a young, blonde-haired woman sat upon a three-legged stool with her legs stretched before her and propped up by a slightly taller stool. Atop her legs were several iron bars that bit deep into her skin. Her back was flayed open from lashings as evidenced by the blood pooling on the floor beneath her. Listlessly, she turned her head toward Lachlan. His stomach pitched at the desperation in her eyes and the pain etched into every line of her weary face.
A moan sounded on his right. He turned toward the sound to see an older woman with gray hair, hanging from a hook in the ceiling with her arms tied behind her back. The woman’s head lolled forward as though she had suddenly fainted. Weights were tied to her ankles, no doubt to increase her pain.
At the sight of the women suffering, Lachlan tensed. He twisted violently, sending his manacled hands into the belly of first one guard who held him, then the other. Both released their grip on him as they struggled to right themselves. Before Swinton could react, Lachlan advanced, wrapping the chain of his bonds around Swinton’s neck and pulling him back against his own body.
The guards drew their swords, but stopped when Lachlan pulled the chains tighter until Swinton’s face turned red. “Release these women, or I will kill him,” Lachlan threatened.
Both guards looked to Swinton, who managed a small nod of his head. One guard removed the weight from the older woman’s legs before lowering her down from the ceiling. He deposited her on the floor where she shivered uncontrollably, then vomited. The other guard removed the iron bars from the blonde-haired girl. As he did, she screamed in pain as the feeling returned to her legs. She tried to stand, but instead fainted, collapsing on the floor.
“What . . . would you . . . have me do . . . with them now?” Swinton s
truggled to ask as the chains still cut into his flesh.
“I only want their suffering to end.”
“You’ve only hastened . . . their deaths . . . and yours.”
He had realized such the moment he acted, but he’d had to do something. “If you will not release them, then at least return them to their cells and give them something to eat and drink.”
Swinton nodded as much as the chains at his throat would allow. Obeying orders, the guards helped the women to stand and half-carried, half-dragged them from the chamber.
Lachlan knew he would never make it out of the tolbooth alive if he tried to use Swinton as his prisoner or as a shield when the guards who had left sent for reinforcements. The only option available to him in such a secure place and on his own was to release the man and let him continue. He had no doubt his impending torture would be extreme because of his own actions.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs as Lachlan released Swinton. Six guards flooded the chamber and took Lachlan to the ground. The stone floor slammed against his back.
“Strip him down and get him on the rack,” Swinton growled to the guards.
With little hope of fighting them off, Lachlan allowed the men to undress him. When they were done, they secured him to the rack at his feet and his waist. His manacled hands were brought up and tied over his head. He became chillingly aware of the cool, damp air that also carried the fetid odor of blood, urine, and death. Lachlan shivered.
Swinton smiled. “Not so brave now, are you?”
“I’ll not give you the satisfaction you seek.” Lachlan forced his features to harden and his body to tense. Swinton wanted his fear. He could see it in the man’s beady eyes.
“We’ll see about that.” Swinton moved to a table along the far wall that bore a witch’s bridle, thumb screws, a lead sprinkler, various weights and ropes, manacles of all sizes, a breast ripper, a cat-o-nine-tails, crocodile shears, and a head crusher.
The sight of the instruments of torture brought forth a shudder of revulsion. He’d heard about torture techniques over the years, but had never seen any of the devices used to accomplish that feat in person until now.
Swinton came to Lachlan’s side and looked down at him with cool, unfeeling eyes. “Are you ready?” Swinton’s hand drifted to a leather sheath attached to his belt from which he withdrew a long, cylindrical, brass needle that tapered to a fine point. “Where should we start?”
Chapter Thirteen
It was close to midnight when the guards returned Lachlan to his cell. Elizabeth had waited there in the shadows since they’d taken him away hours ago. She’d paid one of the guards to bring fresh straw from the slaughterhouse, which after she’d swept the rotting straw into a corner, she’d spread out across the floor. And she’d traded her mother’s pearl ring for fresh water and linen to be delivered upon Lachlan’s return to his cell.
Reid and Lucy had left shortly after Lachlan and with the intent to head to the Nungate Inn at the edge of Berwick. They promised to send word to the other four of the king’s elite guard, claiming that together they might hold some sway over the king.
Elizabeth could only hope they were right.
The tolbooth clock struck twelve when the guards dragged a naked Lachlan into the cell and tossed him on the floor face down. A pile of clothing was hurled next to him.
Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside him. She swayed, trying to fight back the tears and darkness that threatened to consume her. She had to be strong for Lachlan’s sake. “Where is my water and linen?” she called, drawing strength from the act of doing something to help him.
“Coming,” a deep voice replied from the doorway.
Sweet Mary, he was barely breathing.
The young guard she had bribed entered and set down a basin of water, several lengths of white linen, and a candle that cast a soft yellow glow over the small cell. “Help me roll him over,” Elizabeth demanded. When the guard did, she gasped at the sight of his welted and pierced flesh. Her stomach pitched.
“What did they do to him?” Terrible things. Cruel and senseless things. “I thought he was seeing the pricker?”
The guard nodded. “That was afore he decided tae rescue two other women who were bein’ tortured there.”
The tears she’d been trying to stop spilled past her lashes. “Thank you for these things,” she said to the guard, “and for the time alone with my husband.”
The guard looked down at the ring on his little finger. “My wife’ll thank me fer this fer years tae come.” He stood and exited the cell, locking the door behind him.
Looking at the man before her, Elizabeth felt utter despair. “We promised to keep each other from harm.” She expelled a shattered breath. “At the first test of that promise, I failed. I’m so sorry. I’ll figure a way out of this mess that my father has brought down on us both. I’ll find a way.” A swift jolt of agony shook Elizabeth.
Only a short time ago she had thought of this man as her enemy. But over the past few days they had built a bridge that was spanning the gap between enemies and friends. She had actually been eager to see where things led after they had arrived at his castle . . . but would they even get a chance to move forward?
Heaviness settled in her chest as she dipped one of the pieces of linen into the water and began wiping the blood first from his forehead, then his cheeks and neck. She could feel a pulse beneath her fingertips that was thready, but strong.
She dipped her linen in the water, turning the liquid pink as she continued to gently clean his shoulders, his chest. When she reached the most male part of him, she cleaned him quickly before moving on to his legs.
He let out an occasional moan, but did not wake up, for which she was grateful.
When she was done cleansing the multitude of wounds, she secured linen around the worst ones in an effort to keep them from turning putrid, before she attempted to pull on his breeches and shirt in order to keep his wounds from further contamination due to the filthy conditions.
Elizabeth had to keep herself busy with his care so she couldn’t think about the pain he must be feeling or how many deaths had occurred in this very place to those who were tortured like Lachlan had been.
She steeled herself to keep back the tears as she settled on the floor and cradled Lachlan’s head in her lap. They needed a plan, and fast, before he was forced to endure anything more. Yet the harder she tried to assess the situation and make plans, the more jumbled her thoughts became.
With a sigh of capitulation, she leaned her head back against the cold, stone wall, appreciative of the fact they were both still alive. And until either she could see a clear path ahead, or the king’s warriors could find a way out of this situation, neither of them would have any sort of future—separate or together.
*
“Elizabeth.”
The candle had long since sputtered itself out when Lachlan opened his eyes. He stared up at Elizabeth who drowsily opened her eyes.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered again.
Instantly alert, she looked down at him. “You are awake.”
“How did you get in here?”
Her brow furrowed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” He shifted in her lap and pain fired through him. He gasped at the force of it even as he willed himself to relax.
“I bribed the guard.” She reached down but refrained from stroking his cheek. “How do you feel?”
“Bruised. Pained.” He lifted his head for a moment before settling it in her lap once more. “Weak.” He frowned. “Have you been here all night?”
She nodded. “Lachlan—”
“This was not your fault,” he interrupted.
“That is kind of you to say.”
“It’s the truth,” he said as he struggled to a sitting position.
“What are you doing? Your wounds—”
“Hurt like hell,” he said between clenched teeth.
“You were tortured to within an inc
h of your life less than six hours ago, and now you’re behaving as if nothing happened! I thought you were dead when they brought you in here last night. There was so much blood . . .”
The sadness in her eyes made his throat tighten. “It takes more than that to kill a Douglas.” He reached down and gently stroked a lock of hair away from her temple. “I’ll never confess to the charges before me, no matter what they do. But I do need to think . . . to devise a plan . . .”
“I’ve been trying to think of a way out of this all night and I can think of nothing.” Her words were barely above a whisper.
“Then I’ll fight.”
The sadness vanished and fire lit her eyes once more. “Fight what? Superstition? The king? Those are battles you cannot win.” She stood and glared at him. “At least not alone.”
“Nay.” His frown deepened. “You aren’t going to help me with anything.”
His thoughts moved back to the two women who’d been with him in the chamber of tortures. The younger of the two was around Elizabeth’s age. “No one is safe from an accusation of witchcraft. You need to leave here, now, while you still can. I can endure whatever they do to me as long as I know you are safe.”
Elizabeth planted her hands on her hips. “You saved my life not so many days ago,” she said with an intensity that caused her voice to tremble. “It is my turn to save yours.”
God’s teeth, she was stubborn, Lachlan thought, trying to smother a spark of admiration tempering his feeling of annoyance. “Is this about our slates being wiped clean? A life for a life? Or is there more?”
Something flickered in her eyes a heartbeat before it vanished. “It’s about saving your life. Once we get past that, we can look to other things.”
Lachlan frowned, then flinched from the pain. He hadn’t known her long enough to know every little expression that crossed her face, but if he had to guess he would say that brief flicker had been fear. Perhaps she was trying to save him to soothe her own soul, but deep inside she still believed he was all the things they said about him. The thought sent a chill down his spine. “Elizabeth—”
A Temptress in Tartan Page 13
